


Descent

by mar106



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Character Study, Gen, Pilots, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Women in the Military, World War II, no names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 08:55:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20636492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mar106/pseuds/mar106
Summary: Fareeha Amari, Captain, No. 440 Squadron, RCAF. Height: 6". Hair: Black. Eyes: Brown. Distinguishing Marks: Egyptian tattoo under right eye.Next of Kin: Sam Amari. #3 River Road, Prince Rupert, British Colombia.Notes: Learnt to fly from very early age. Confident and experienced flyer. Will go far.





	Descent

**Author's Note:**

> In case you missed the tags - tw: mentions of ptsd, tw: images of war

She had always loved flying. The control and responsiveness of the aircraft, the sensation of height and speed, of separation from everything had all entranced her. Her favorite thing to do was to cut the engine and simply glide. It was so quiet, with just the wind whistling past the cockpit and the sound of her own heartbeat. It was bliss.

It was her father who had introduced her to flying. A trick-pilot and engineer, he loved pushing the limits of his planes, both in flight and on the ground. He had fallen in love with them in the Great War, while serving as a mechanic. As such, it was natural that she became a cadet when the Second World War kicked off.

Flight school taught her another thing she loved - aerial combat. Maneuver and counter-maneuver, when to yaw and when to roll, trading altitude for speed and speed for maneuvers! It was like a great game of chess, except without equal footing for both sides. It reminded her too of the stories her grandfather had told, which his grandfather had told him - of the good old days of the navy when ships were powered by sails, and Britain ruled the waves. So much of the engagements of that day had depended on the ships’ position relative to the wind. If you were upwind of your enemy, you were said to “have the weather-gauge” as you had greater maneuverability and options, and could force the engagement whenever you liked. It was very much the same in planes with altitude.

The first plane she flew for real was the Hawker Hurricane MkIIA fighter. She knew it’d always be overshadowed by the Supermarine Spitfire in the public eye, but she didn't care. Just being an aviator gave her all the clout she wanted and needed. 

Her first real patrol was nerve-wracking. It was even more so because _nothing happened_. She kept looking over her shoulder, thinking she saw planes of the horizon, straining her ears so she mistook her own and her wing mates’ engine noise for enemies'. It would continue like this some time, and she never got over it. It left her pacing, aggravated, wanting to do something! Praying for something, anything to happen, just to end the dreadful waiting.

Her first sight of enemies was maddening. While on patrol, they managed to catch sight of a pair of Junkers Ju 87 “Stuka” dive-bombers through varying cloud cover. They caught up to the planes and and exchanged quite a bit of fire, but neither their nor their enemies’ guns landed any hits. After a long time of maneuver and counter maneuver which resulted in nothing whatsoever, the Stukas ditched their bombs in the ocean and ran back to their airfield. She and her wing had prevented an attack, but they had nothing to show for it but spent ammo boxes and lingering frustration, and they knew the Stukas would be back.

Her first real dog-fight was terrifying. Enemies all around, the constant threat of a bloody, painful death by your side every second. It was in this battle she got her first kill, but it would never be a positive to her. As she sped past the flaming plane, she caught a glimpse of the man inside the cockpit. It was not some dastardly, mustache-twirling villain but a man much like her uncle, with blonde hair and blue eyes and a frame which would always look squished inside the flight harness. On his face was a look of such abject, atavistic terror that it had seared itself into her mind. It appears in her dreams, sometimes, and always when that happens she wakes in a cold sweat. She was glad to be transferred to the Hawker Typhoon, which was more suited for ground attack than dogfighting.

Her first bomb-drop was exhilarating. The feeling of the plane lightening, becoming more responsive in an instant, was a feeling like no other. The sound of the bomb going off behind her, imaging as if she was riding the blast wave, and the adrenaline were all unique as well. It was great, too, feeling like she was really directly influencing the war on the ground. How popular it made her with the infantrymen and _infantrywomen_ was just an added bonus.

Her first rocket-strike was sickening. Strafing was one thing - the guns were loud and made the plane shake and you could barely see what you were firing at. Even of you did, you hardly ever hit people, not really, and even if you did all you saw was a bit of blood as you sped past them and wrestled with the stick, praying you had not overdone it this time. But with rockets, the explosion was in front of you and you saw the blood and gore and parts of _people_ and vehicles flying as your deadly, hateful rockets fell on your deadly, hateful, _human_ enemies.

Her favorite moment in flying had been the top of a climb, where you cut the engine and began to dive. Peaceful, quiet, one with the sky and above all.

Now, it was her least favorite. It was the moment before she rained down death. The calm before the storm was silent, lonely, and filled with remorse.

She hated flying.

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, and there ends my first published historical fic. I am a giant military history nerd, and so I've always wanted to write something like this, but it's always ended stalling, either due to the emotional toll that comes with writing war, the amount of research I find myself doing, or coming up against my own propensity for historical accuracy. 
> 
> (I hope this note doesn't ruin the moment the end of the story creates...)


End file.
